6 October 2023 Focus shifts from the flowers to the spaces in between—the blue watery spaces, where 'things' swim. From the pale, sun-bleached Caribbean sands to the wet, mulchy shores, coral reefs, and deep oceans. There is nothing much to see on land, where the homogenous sand covers everything except for the vacuous pure white centers. An ant makes its way across the deserts. The Apollonian rationality, so dry, pale, and one-dimensional. There is a giant boy being swallowed by a carnivorous plant. The pale sands suck and suck and suck, yet don’t receive the water. They remain dry. This world is flat and square, bordered by white columns of light. If I made a big painting, would I see more? Would I see deeper? The things in the water are becoming more stylized, more patterned, more cartoon-like, more defined, and so they lose—they are reduced, they don't seem to swim anymore, but rather float above the water.

There are so many lies in this painting, falsities, things that float above and obscure the real. Preconceptions. Things striving to become flowers, sand. Yuppies. Is that boy being fed to the carnivorous plant as a sacrifice? Is that a dam wall top right? This painting oscillates from flowers and leaves to a terrain, to a map, to humanity and its dynamics. Water scorpions, sea slugs, sea serpents, giant squids, octopi, sea spiders, electric eels, giant sea anemones, with long sticky tentacles, spiky water sun-blooms, ships and trade routes, treacherous underwater caves, and narrow canyons that only the bravest captains navigate. It is a sunny day today.

7 October 2023

Famous wrecks, Caribbean islands, cities, white cities, sucking the surrounding lands dry, exploiting, setting forth tentacles to exploit the land, sucking, leaving pale sun-bleached Caribbean beach sand behind, starving, collapsing at the boundaries of human perception and comprehension—the abject, undefined, undetermined fluid boundaries creating new knowledge that is always old, retracing the boundaries of the speaking subject, well-defined boundaries separating the unity, the ego from life-giving waters—the waters pushing, imposing, injecting, effacing the pretty flower. The pretty flower, an ecstasy of the ego in harmony, a moment of harmony and unity experienced as it rejects all human symbolism, all human categories. How thick this plot becomes, how radically the symbols reverse, how strangely it is that clinging on to one's life results in losing, losing it when all has been exploited and transformed into moments of ecstasy of the ego, and it runs dry and pale and empty.